A Promising Void: The Memo-morphosis

by Dimitry Partsi

Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:

(The stage is a bare office. A desk, two chairs. A fern in the corner is visibly drooping, shedding brown leaves that fall like tears. The sign reads “Maybe Squirrel Recruitment.” The air is grey.)

(KAFKETT sits behind the desk. He stares straight ahead. NORMALSON 1 sits opposite, holding a piece of paper.)

NORMALSON 1: I have arrived.

KAFKETT: It was inevitable. The chair was empty. Now it is full. That is logic.

NORMALSON 1: I am here for the employment. I have my curriculum vitae. (He holds up the paper.) It has facts on it.

KAFKETT: (Ignoring the paper) Facts are a passing fancy. Do you have a name?

NORMALSON 1: I am Normalson.

KAFKETT: What a coincidence! So am I.

NORMALSON 1: You are… Normalson?

KAFKETT: Today, yes. Yesterday I was Kafkett. Tomorrow I shall be a lampshade. One must be adaptable. That is business. Do you have any questions?

NORMALSON 1: (Confused) Yes. What is it that you… do?

KAFKETT: We recruit.

NORMALSON 1: You recruit the squirrels?

KAFKETT: No. The squirrels recruit us. They are the management. They chatter. We interpret the chatter. It is a very precise science.

(Kafkett begins pulling walnuts out of his desk drawer and lining them up in a row.)

KAFKETT: This one means “synergy.” This one means “the market is damp.” This one means “beware of Wednesdays.”

NORMALSON 1: I see. So, I am a candidate?

KAFKETT: You are a candidate. The walls are a candidate. My left shoe is a candidate. We have an integrated approach. Have you brought your own emptiness with you?

NORMALSON 1: I… I suppose so. I am unemployed.

KAFKETT: Excellent! A promising void. We can fill it. (He stands and opens a closet. An avalanche of identical CVs, all blank, pours out, burying his feet.) Look! So many candidates! They are all you! You are all them! We have flooded the market with possibility!

NORMALSON 1: (Shielding his face from a stray CV) But how do I get a job?

KAFKETT: (Wading through the papers) A job? What a strange word. It sounds like a sob. A job-sob. No, we don’t offer job-sobs. We offer a continuation.

NORMALSON 1: A continuation of what?

KAFKETT: Of this. The sitting. The talking. The rustling of papers. The fern dying. It is a very stable position. The salary is paid in silence.

(Kafkett stops and points a finger at Normalson 1. His voice becomes a loud, rhythmic chant.)

KAFKETT: The process is the process is the process! First, the greeting! Greetings! Second, the seating! Seated! Third, the speaking! Spoken! Fourth, the leaving!

NORMALSON 1: I leave?

KAFKETT: Eventually, everyone leaves. Or they become the desk. My grandfather became a desk. A very sturdy one. With three drawers.

(The room seems to grow darker. The pile of blank CVs seems to be growing, slowly creeping towards Normalson 1’s chair.)

NORMALSON 1: (A whisper) I don’t understand.

KAFKETT: Understanding is not a prerequisite for employment! Do you think the chair understands it is a chair? Yet it performs its function admirably! You will be an excellent employee.

NORMALSON 1: But what will I do?

KAFKETT: (His face is now inches from Normalson 1’s. His eyes are wide and vacant.) You will wait for the next candidate. You will ask him if he has a name. You will tell him your name is Normalson. It is a very important role.

(Normalson 1 looks down at his hands. They seem distant, like they belong to someone else. He looks at Kafkett, who is slowly, almost imperceptibly, turning grey and rigid, taking on the texture of the wall behind him.)

NORMALSON 1: (Mechanically) Okay. I’m in.

KAFKETT: (His voice is a faint echo from the wall) Of course you are. The chair was empty. Now it is full.

(Normalson 1 turns and stares at the door, his face a perfect blank. He waits. The fern gives a final, dramatic shudder and collapses into a pile of dust.)

(The door opens. A man who looks exactly like Normalson 1 walks in, clutching a piece of paper. This is NORMALSON 2.)

NORMALSON 2: I have arrived.

NORMALSON 1: (Without turning) It was inevitable. The chair was empty.

(Curtain.)

(The curtain rises on the exact moment the previous scene ended. The air is grey. The pile of fern-dust sits undisturbed. NORMALSON 1 sits behind the desk, staring blankly. NORMALSON 2 stands before him, clutching his paper.)

NORMALSON 2: I have arrived.

NORMALSON 1: (His voice is a perfect monotone, a recording.) It was inevitable. The chair was empty.

(Normalson 2 sits. He places his curriculum vitae on the desk. Normalson 1 is supposed to ignore it. He is supposed to ask for a name. But a flicker, a small, trapped spark of the man he was moments ago, ignites. He looks down at the paper.)

NORMALSON 1: (Slowly) It has facts on it.

NORMALSON 2: (Slightly taken aback) Yes. That is its purpose. Dates. Skills. A summary of a life.

NORMALSON 1: I remember. I remember saying that. The words are still… warm. In my mouth. (He looks up, and for a moment, his eyes are not blank. They are filled with a dawning, shared horror.) My name is Normalson. What is yours?

NORMALSON 2: I… am also Normalson. This is… irregular.

NORMALSON 1: The irregularity is the only thing that’s real. He–the one before–he said the squirrels were management. He said his grandfather became a desk. He said the salary was silence.

NORMALSON 2: (Leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper) He? Who’s he? Where did he go?

NORMALSON 1: (Gestures with his eyes towards the wall behind him.) He was absorbed. He became part of the grey. He warned me it would happen. We are in a process. A mechanism.

NORMALSON 2: (Looks at his own hands, then at Normalson 1’s identical hands.) This is a mistake. A clerical error. We need to speak to a supervisor.

NORMALSON 1: The supervisors are squirrels! And they only speak in walnuts! This one means “synergy,” this one means “the market is damp,” this one–(He stops himself, shaking his head as if to clear water from his ears.) No. That’s my script. His script. We must create a new script.

(A bold resolve forms on Normalson 1’s face. He stands up. The motion is jarring, an act of violence against the room’s stillness.)

NORMALSON 1: Let’s leave.

NORMALSON 2: (Stands as well, a hesitant echo.) Leave?

NORMALSON 1: Together. Now. Right now. Before the texture changes. Before the silence gets paid. The door opened for you; it can open for us. Two of us. That’s a new variable. It must disrupt the logic.

(They turn towards the door. But as they take a step, a low, grinding sound emanates from the desk. A sound like stone scraping stone. One of the drawers slides open with a slow, deliberate groan.)

NORMALSON 2: What is that?

(From the drawer, a single piece of paper slides out onto the desk’s surface. It is Normalson 2’s curriculum vitae. As they watch, the ink on the page begins to fade, the letters of his achievements turning from black to grey to nothing. The dates of his birth and education evaporate from the paper.)

NORMALSON 1: He called it un-writing. He’s un-writing you!

(Another drawer groans open. A second piece of paper slides out. It is Normalson 1’s CV, already almost completely blank. A single new line of text appears on it, written in a faint, grey script: “Current Position: Component.”)

NORMALSON 2: (Whispering in terror) Make it stop.

NORMALSON 1: We just have to walk! We ignore it! It’s a trick!

(He takes a determined step. Normalson 2 follows. The air in the room seems to thicken, becoming a heavy, clinging gel. The fern-dust on the floor stirs, rising in a small, lazy cyclone. A new voice fills the room. It is not Kafkett’s. It is deeper, flatter, and seems to come from the wood of the desk itself.)

VOICE FROM THE DESK: QUERY: DEVIATION FROM PROTOCOL. QUERY: ATTEMPTED EGRESS. THIS IS AN UNSCHEDULED PERFORMANCE REVIEW.

NORMALSON 1: (Shouting at the desk) We are not your components! We are men!

VOICE FROM THE DESK: THE DISTINCTION IS NOTED IN YOUR FILE. IT IS LISTED UNDER “DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR.” YOUR REBELLION HAS BEEN LOGGED. IT IS A STANDARD PHASE OF ONBOARDING. IT DEMONSTRATES A CAPACITY FOR INITIATIVE, WHICH WILL NOW BE HARVESTED.

NORMALSON 2: Harvested?

VOICE FROM THE DESK: YOUR FUTILITY IS A RESOURCE. YOUR HOPE IS THE FUEL FOR THE MECHANISM’S INDIFFERENCE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR DESIGNATED POSITIONS.

(Defeated, they feel the energy drain from them. The air thins. The invisible weight lifts. As if pulled by strings, they turn and walk back. Normalson 2 sits in the candidate’s chair. Normalson 1 sits behind the desk. The CVs on the desk, now both perfectly blank, slide silently back into their drawers.)

NORMALSON 1: (His voice is hollow, all the rebellion scoured out of it.) You will be an excellent employee.

NORMALSON 2: (Staring at the wall where Kafkett vanished.) But what will I do?

NORMALSON 1: You will learn the walnuts. You will feel the silence accrue. You will wait.

(The door opens. A third man who looks exactly like both of them walks in, clutching a piece of paper. This is NEWEST NORMALSON.)

NEWEST NORMALSON: I have arrived.

(Normalson 1 looks at Normalson 2. A flicker of shared, damned understanding passes between them. Their rebellion did not break the cycle. It added a new layer of despair to it. Now they are both the wardens.)

NORMALSON 1 & NORMALSON 2: (In perfect, listless unison) It was inevitable. The chair was empty.

(Curtain.)

EXHIBIT FOUR: Return to “All My Angry Selves“

Proceed to the next Gallery Four: Controllers attraction, “Dental Hygiene”